


East, West

by Chash



Series: Home's Best [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: Bellamy wouldn't say he was glad when Clarke Griffin returned to Arcadia to take care of her ailing father; it was hard to be happy about someone else's illness. But he was happy to see her, and he's happier still when, after her father's death, she isn't planning to leave again.Instead, she decides to adopt an orphan boy to help her around the farm, and she asks Bellamy to help her out with him. To say it doesn't go how he expected is an understatement.





	East, West

**Author's Note:**

> I am always, in every fandom I am in, thinking "How do I make this into an Anne of Green Gables AU?" so in many ways I'm surprised that it took me this long, but apparently the answer I was looking for was "Clarke is Marilla and a random side character is Anne and go from there," which brings us to today. If you forgot (as I did), Reese is the little girl whose dad dies in the culling, but she's basically an OC here. 
> 
> And, as always, historical accuracy was low on my list of priorities, so if you find any glaring inaccuracies, I genuinely don't care. I put in the effort to not use the word "yeah," which is as much as anyone can expect of me tbh.

"I don't think I can't handle the farm on my own."

The statement isn't a surprise to Bellamy. Ever since Clarke returned to Arcadia, he's been prepared for this, for her to leave again. She came home to help her father after his health began to decline, and now that he's passed, there's still the farm and Clarke all alone on it.

"Have you asked your mother if she wants to help?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes and gives him an exasperated smile.

He returns it brightly.

"I wrote her to let her know my father's dead. I haven't received a response yet, but I assume she's asking when I'll be back in the city."

"What are you going to tell her?"

She looks away from him, out over the horizon, and her fingers tap against the arm of her chair, and uneven patter of sound, something like rain. "I was thinking about getting a boy to help out with the work."

His heart stops. It's a phrase he heard so many times growing up in the orphanage. That was the reason most people got orphans. It was the reason Marcus Kane took him, and it had been a minor miracle that Bellamy had been able to talk him into taking Octavia as well. He was lucky, so much luckier than many in his place.

And Clarke knows that. She knows exactly what she's saying.

"It still wouldn't be enough," he says, because that's true, without a doubt. "Not for the size of your farm."

"No. But I could downsize. You and Octavia could take the lower farm. She's going to need it."

He thinks it over. Clarke and a boy of eleven or twelve could certainly handle the Griffin farm, and the lower farm borders his and Octavia's property. Lincoln and Octavia have three children and another on the way; they'll need more room sooner rather than later.

But it's a plan that revolves around Clarke staying, and he didn't think that she would. He thought she'd be gone as soon as she found someone to take the farm.

"You want to keep it up?" he asks. "I wasn't sure you were taking to small-town life again."

She looks at him, expression something between a glare and a pout. "You think I'm not taking to it?"

"Better every day," he teases, and she shakes her head. But there's still tension in her posture, so he thinks it over and tells her, "I didn't know if you liked it enough to stay. That's all."

"I don't have anything to go back to," she says. "But I have a place to stay."

"You do. I'm not telling you to leave. Or that you don't belong here. But you're making plans to stay for a long time, if you get an orphan, Clarke. You know what that means."

"I know." She exhales. "But I could do it, couldn't I? I could live here."

When Bellamy arrived in Arcadia, Clarke Griffin was already the town's favorite daughter. She was bright and brilliant and everyone agreed that she would do the island proud.

It went without saying that she wouldn't do the island proud by staying on the island. She went off to get an education, studying to become a nurse. She was doing well, by all accounts, aside from being, well, a little queer. Not married, and no interest in being married. Not interested in any feminine pursuits. No one was sure what to make of her, and when she came back, no one knew what to expect, least of all Bellamy. 

They'd been friends before she left, after a fashion. The kind of friends who were too stubborn to say it like that. Friendly rivals, mostly. But he'd always been sure she was very nearly as fond of him as he was of her. 

He missed her, when she left. He looked forward to her letters, when they came. And he'd been able to read between the lines of her letters, because he knew her. He knew when she wrote of the woman she met at church what it meant, and he knew just as well what it meant when she said they'd parted.

Her mother had gone with her, a city woman who moved to the island for love and never quite fit in. But Jake Griffin loved the land, and when his health had started to fail, Bellamy had expected the farm to die with him.

He hadn't expected Clarke to return, thirty-six years old, a few strands of gray in her hair and a few wrinkles coming in at the corners of her eyes, but still smiling at the sight of him, waiting for her at the train station.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Bringing you home," he said, and her smile might have lit the whole world. It certainly lit his part of it.

But he was always certain she'd go, once her father passed away. She wanted to be here for his last days, and once those days ended, she'd return to her real life. 

"You've lived here before," he tells her at last. "You could do it again."

"And the orphan?" she asks. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

"Can you not afford a hired boy?"

"I could. But--I'd rather do this. I remember what it meant to you. I could do that for someone else." She considers him. "I'm surprised you didn't do that yourself. You weren't so old when--well, you could have married again. You still could."

"O's got enough children for me to handle," he says, and it's mostly true. He was a few weeks shy of thirty when Gina died, after years of the two of them trying to have children. He did think about marrying again, but it never quite seemed worth the effort. And he's happy, mostly. He has enough in his life.

"Still. You'd be a good father."

"Are you trying to convince me to adopt an orphan too?"

"No. But I'll need a lot of advice, if I get one of my own."

"You're planning on me to help you with this?" he asks, keeping his voice even.

"Should I not be? You've helped with everything else. And you're something of an expert on orphans."

"As long as I have a specialty." She's still watching him, and he realizes she's expecting an answer. "I told you when you came back," he says. "Whatever you need, Clarke."

"Then I'll look into it," she says. "Thanks, Bellamy."

His chest feels like it might burst. "You're welcome."

*

His first duty is taking her to the train station to collect the orphan. She could go on her own, she insists, but Bellamy knows that not every orphan boy is a good fit for someone like Clarke.

"And what will you do if you don't approve of him?" she teases.

Bellamy glances over at her. "We'll do what I told you we should in the first place," he says. "Go to the orphanage and I'll help you choose one for yourself."

Her voice goes soft. "I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't make you go back."

Bellamy was fourteen when he was adopted for the last time, which makes it almost twenty-five years since he set foot in an orphanage. But he does remember it sharply, still dreams of being there sometimes. He remembers the scent of too many children, not clean enough and all going hungry, remembers skipping his own meals to smuggle extra portions to his sister. He remembers every time he was taken out, and every time he had to run back, even though he hated it, because Octavia was _still there_ , and he wouldn't lose her.

Clarke's right, he never wanted to go back. But he would. He will, if she needs him to.

"Maybe we won't have to," he says. "But I'm not letting you take him, if I don't like the look of him."

"Plenty of people didn't like the look of you either. You should give him a chance."

"People didn't like the look of me because they didn't know where my father came from," he says. "If I don't like the look of an orphan, it's because I know about orphans."

"I'll take your opinion into account," Clarke says. "But I'm not expecting some perfect child who won't need any work." Her smile turns wicked. "After all, the last orphan boy I met was _insufferable_."

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "I can't have been the last one you met."

She sobers. "No, you aren't. I treated plenty of orphans in the city." The teasing returns to her voice "But you were definitely the worst."

"I probably would have been nice if you were a nurse trying to take care of me, instead of some little blonde-haired know-it-all who--"

Just like that, she's laughing again. "You were just upset I was younger than you and knew more."

"You'd been in school the whole time, you had an advantage."

"I do wish you could have come to college and university with me." She sounds wistful. "I found other people to fight with, but none of them were so good for it as you."

"All that education would be wasted on a farmer," he says, but he knows exactly what she means. He's not a bad farmer, but he thinks he could have done better as someone else. Something else. He could have gone on, but he wasn't adopted to be a son, he was adopted to be a worker. And he's good at that.

"All that education is already wasted on a farmer. I've seen how many books you have."

"And now that you're back, I finally have someone to discuss them with."

She smiles, and he's glad that she lets it go with that. Sometimes, he feels guilty, almost itchy, about how grateful he is for her having returned. It feels like selfishness, to be thankful that Clarke is here, has left her career and her whole life behind. He tried so hard for so long to tell himself that he was happy for her, that he wasn't jealous or resentful, but her coming home has made one thing plain and undeniable: in spite of everything, he missed her, and even if he wasn't resentful, he was _lonely_ without her.

He parks the buggy and only then starts to feel uncomfortable. It's been a long time since anyone asked him when they might hear news of his engagement to Clarke, and they've been avoiding it, since her return, by virtue of his being a widower and her being an old maid. His sister has, of course, pointed out that neither widowers or old maids are barred from marriage, but if anyone else shares her opinion, he's been spared the gossip.

But he is escorting her to the train to get a child; that's the kind of thing anyone would gossip about.

If Clarke is having the same thoughts, she shows no sign of it; she's frowning at the platform, looking down its length with some consternation. "Do you think the train hasn't come yet?"

"It should have," he says, checking the station clock before turning his own attention to the platform. It's almost empty, with only a single girl waiting, looking around with an anxiety that makes Bellamy's heart stutter to a stop.

He knows that expression. He knows that _girl_. He remembers the bright, nervous eyes, the worn out clothes, the way her hands clutch the handle of her bag, as if she thinks someone will try to take it.

"Then he should be here," Clarke is saying, and it's so obvious to Bellamy, what's happened.

"Clarke," he says.

"Maybe it's running--"

" _Clarke_."

"What?"

"You can ask the station master, but--there must have been a mistake." 

The girl has spotted them, and she's watching them with greed written all over her face. Bellamy doesn't know what she was told, but it's clear he and Clarke are looking for someone, and she knows someone is coming for her.

"A mistake?"

"That's your orphan."

"It's a _girl_ ," she says. 

"I know. Go and talk to the station master."

Clarke narrows her eyes; she does know him too well. "What are you going to do?"

"If I'm wrong, I want to make sure she's got someone coming for her."

Her mouth twitches, just a little, and he's not sure if it's amusement or irritation. "If you're right, I'm sending her back."

"I know."

Bellamy sees his sister in every small girl he meets, so it's no surprise to find her in this one. But it's easier to find Octavia here than in many girls. He sees more of her in this small orphan girl than he sees in his nieces, and he knows exactly why. It's been almost twenty-five years since he got a home of his own, but there's a part of him that's never stopped waking up in the middle of the night, sure that someone took him far away and he'd had to leave a girl exactly like this behind. They don't have to look alike; they're still exactly the same.

His heart lurches as she shoots to her feet. She's such a little thing, underfed and underloved, and his heart aches with it.

"Are you Mr. Clarke Griffin?" she asks, and he has to smile.

"No, I'm not."

He wants to say more, but she collapses back onto the bench before he can continue, all the joy going out of her at once. "I thought you must not be, for you have a lady with you, and I was told Mr. Griffin was not married. So you and your wife must be taking the train for a journey, and you're so kind to stop and talk to me."

He wets his lips. "That's not right either. Someone must have gotten mixed up about Clarke. That was her, going inside to talk to the station master."

The girl's eyes go so wide he nearly laughs, despite the knots his stomach is tying itself into. "That lady was Clarke Griffin?"

"That lady was Clarke Griffin. I'm her neighbor, Bellamy Blake. She asked me to take her down to the train. She's not much for driving."

"Oh!" She shoots back up to her feet at once, jostling her hat off with the force of it. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Blake, I had no idea you were--or that Miss Griffin was--"

"That happens to Clarke a lot," he assures her, with a smile. "I remember when I first heard about Clarke Griffin, I assumed the same thing. I wasn't expecting a girl."

"It happens to me too, so I should have been more careful," she says, mournful. "So many times, I've had someone looking for _Reese_ and thinking I'm a boy."

He's glad she's looking down, so she doesn't see his wince. "That's your name? Reese?"

"Oh! Yes!" She snaps to attention again, and Bellamy worries that she's going to hurt herself, jerking around so much. "My name is Reese Lemkin. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blake, and thank you so much for bringing Miss Griffin to fetch me. It's very kind of you to take the trouble. I was starting to worry, and I wasn't sure what I'd do, if I had to stay here overnight. Or--overnight wouldn't be so bad, but then what would I do in the morning? If they didn't let me back on the train without a ticket then I don't know where I'd go. But I'm going to Arcadia, aren't I? That's where Miss Griffin lives. It is _Miss_ Griffin, isn't it? Or was she married?"

"Miss Griffin," he agrees. "She's a trained nurse, but I don't think she uses a title."

"A nurse?" asks Reese, lighting up. "Did she go to school?"

"She did. She lived in the city for a long time, but now she's moved back home."

"That is exactly what I want to do," Reese says, with impressive conviction. "I want to go off and have adventure after adventure, and then have somewhere to go home to."

"That sounds nice," Bellamy says, and has to look away from the ache of it.

When he does, he spots Clarke, lingering by the door, watching them. Her expression is blank, the shut-off look Bellamy recognizes from when she's angry or upset. She has a talent for giving nothing away.

Reese follows his gaze to Clarke, and he can see her light up at the sight. "She _is_ a city woman, isn't she? I can just tell. Why did she come back? Was it a doomed romance? It's always a doomed romance in books. Or an affair of honor. Those usually come with romances."

"Her father was ill," says Bellamy, absent. He inclines his head to Clarke, and he can see her girding herself for the bad news.

She doesn't have any use for a girl. Bellamy remembers it all too well, how many people thought they wanted him, but couldn't imagine needing his sister. It was usually families looking for girls, hoping for someone to help out with the other children, and that had always been the problem, for him and his sister both. People without children looking for strong workers wanted him, and people with wanted Octavia, not realizing she had no talent for childrearing. They would have been better off taking him for that, and her for the farm labor.

But it was never any use, taking one of them without another. No one ever made it stick.

"There's been a mistake," Clarke says, without preamble. "I'm very sorry."

Bellamy watches Reese's face fall, and his own throat closes. "Clarke--" he starts.

"There _was_ ," she says. "And I am. But I have a farm, and I can't handle it by myself. This isn't charity." She can't keep up the tone, harsh and cool, nor her haughty posture, and she slumps. "It's nothing to worry about tonight. You'll come back to Arcadia with us and spend the night, and I'll see if I can find someone else to take you."

"Someone else to take me," Reese echoes.

"I'll make inquiries." Her eyes flick to Bellamy, just for a second. "I won't send you back if I don't have to. We'll try to find a place for you."

"Don't bother," the girl says, fierce. "I don't need your help. If you'll just give me enough for a train ticket, I can stay here. I'll be--"

"Reese," says Bellamy, making his voice gentle. "Let us take you back and give you something to eat, at least. You might as well get a good meal out of it."

"What do you care?" she asks, and Clarke's jaw tightens.

"I know what it's like to go hungry," he says. "And unwanted. I'm sorry for--there was a mistake. But we can do better with it than leaving you here to go back to--is it the orphanage in Polis? Mrs. Lewis can't still be the matron, but I doubt the new one is any better. Do they still call the tree in the back Old Nick?"

Reese turns to him with blazing eyes. "How do you know that?"

"I grew up there too," he says. "Let us take you back, and we'll find a better place for you than an orphanage. I promise."

She thinks it over, and then picks up her bag. "I will accept a meal," she says, as if she's the one doing them a favor. "You can bring me back to the train tomorrow."

Bellamy bites back on his smile. "Perfect," he says. "The buggy is right this way."

*

"I know what you're going to tell me," Clarke says.

Reese has gone up to sleep, and Bellamy knows he should leave too. Clarke insisted on feeding him dinner, and he's quite sure her primary motivation was to avoid being alone with the child. On its surface, this knowledge should make him doubt the wisdom of her keeping Reese. If she can't face a meal alone with the girl, parenthood should be out of the question.

But he can't help thinking she seems like a much better fit for Clarke than some unknown boy. While Reese might not be as strong as a boy her age would be, she's bright and spirited, passionate. She had trouble keeping her mouth shut in spite of her bad mood and hurt feelings, and after only a few minutes' driving, she was asking questions about where they were going, what they were doing, how Clarke became a nurse, how long she had lived in the city, what kinds of adventures she'd had. 

She's the kind of girl Clarke was when she was younger, and they'd be good for each other. He's never been as sure of anything.

"You can afford to hire someone to help on the farm," he says. "And that's just for the work I can't handle."

"Yesterday, you thought my getting a boy was the best solution," she says. "Today, there's a girl, and you're telling me I should hire help."

"If you don't let things you learn today affect opinions you had yesterday, you'll have bad opinions," he tells her, and she smiles a little, grudging. "Things change, Clarke. I hadn't thought of this happening yesterday."

"If you want to give her a home, I'm sure your sister could use some help around the house."

"That's not what I want. I want you to have a good home here, and her too. I think you'd be good for each other."

She opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it. She sets her jaw, making up her mind, and then says, "Do you know why you can stay so late, and no one remarks on it?"

It's his turn to consider. "My sister does. But you're right, I'd expect more gossip, for all the time we spend together."

"The rumor is I'm not--it's believed I have no interest in marriage, or in men," she says, careful. "A woman like me taking on an orphan girl--I think it wouldn't be good for either of us. A boy would be safe from rumors; a girl would be thought to be caught up in my perversions, I'm sure."

"I haven't heard that many of those rumors either. Not that I don't believe you they're circulating," he adds, quick. "I know they are. But if I'm here every day helping with the farm and the girl, it won't be long before the gossips of the town decide they were wrong and we'll be married any day."

"They could decide you're barking up the wrong tree, too."

"A story they can share is better than one they can't," he says. "It's much easier to talk about how Bellamy Blake hasn't proposed yet and wonder what he's waiting for than trying to come up with euphemisms about your actual preferences."

"They're not my actual preferences." She's not looking at him, and her voice is careful. "I--my interest in women is additional to my interest in men, not instead of it."

"An explanation I'm sure would be met with understanding and acceptance if you told Mrs. Monroe."

She ducks her head on a laugh, but he can still see the relief in her features at his reaction. "I'm sure." She sobers, meets his eye again. "But you see my--you understand why I'm not good for this."

"I understand why you think that," he says. "But I think if you let it stop you keeping a girl you could help, you'll regret it."

"You think I shouldn't worry about it?"

"I do understand," he says. "And if you were to find a woman to have an understanding with, I'm sure it would be more difficult for a girl you took in than for a boy. But she's an orphan. She'd rather have a home than anything."

"And I could always find a man to marry," she says.

It hadn't occurred to him, that she might. He had thought that her preference was set, that marriage was nothing she wanted. It hadn't occurred to him that she might like _both_. 

Which doesn't matter to him, of course. It doesn't mean anything for the two of them. 

"Don't go looking for a marriage just to calm rumors down," he says. "But if you found one you wanted, I'm sure it wouldn't hurt."

"I don't know the first thing about girls," she admits, soft. "I thought a boy would be fine. He'd just be like you."

"And you thought that was a good idea?" he teases.

"I learned to put up with you, didn't I?"

"Somehow." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, it's obviously your decision. I'm not going to tell you what you should do. But--if I had to pick an orphan for you, I'd pick someone like her. I think you'd be good for each other."

"And what about you?" 

He frowns. "What about me?"

"It's going to be a lot more work for you. It's not helping out with the boy, it's helping out with the farm. It's rumors and responsibilities and--"

"I don't mind," he says. "I already said I'd help, remember? I'm going to keep helping."

She lets out a long, slightly shaky breath. "And you think I can do this."

"I think you can do a lot better with this than a boy."

Clarke nods. "We can try it. For a few days. Just to see how we do with it."

It's an effort, but Bellamy hides his smile. "For a few days," he agrees, and takes his leave of her.

*

"Did you convince Clarke Griffin to adopt an orphan?" Octavia asks him the next morning. 

Bellamy gives it all due consideration. "Not entirely."

"An orphan?" asks Leah. She's Octavia's oldest, twelve, a bright, beautiful girl. "Clarke got an orphan? To keep?"

"She did. A girl, about your age."

"Bell--" Octavia starts, but Leah is practically delirious with joy.

"Can I meet her? What's her name? What's she like?"

"Her name is Reese," Bellamy tells her. "And I don't know if you can meet her yet, she's still settling in. But once she has, I'm sure she'll want to be your friend."

"In the meantime, you can go get the eggs," O says, firm. "I need to talk to your uncle."

Leah scampers out, and Octavia regards him. She's hugely pregnant and even more short-tempered than usual, so he probably shouldn't be surprised that she wants to lecture him about the situation with Clarke. In a way, he's providing her with a valuable service. Giving her something to be upset about.

"So, she isn't leaving?" Octavia finally asks.

"It's not like orphans are nailed down. She could always take Reese back to the city with her, if she wants. I don't think she does, but she could. She's planning on staying, yes," he adds, when Octavia just watches him. "She sold us the lower farm to make her property more manageable, not because she's leaving."

"Did you ever ask her to marry you?" she finally asks.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, did you?"

He rubs his face. "No. I never asked her to marry me. What made you think I did?"

"I didn't know," she says, casual. "I thought maybe you did some big, last-minute romantic gesture. Like-- _don't leave, I love you_."

"That's not what it was like."

"Oh?" asks Octavia. "So what was it like?"

He takes a minute to mull over his answer. In truth, he'd never really allowed himself to think he loved Clarke back then. He could have, he knew that much, but her leaving and his staying was always in the periphery of his awareness. It had never seemed possible, that she might marry him, for all some of the town gossips treated it as a sure thing, so he hadn't allowed himself to wonder if she might.

Of course, he could have asked her. But then he would have had to know that she wouldn't stay for him. He's happier to have never made her say it.

"She didn't want to be here," he says. "And now she does. Not everything is about romance, O."

"Not _everything_ is," she agrees. "But don't even try and tell me this isn't."

"It's not. And don't tell me I'm wrong," he adds, before she can say anything else. "Maybe it could be, someday. I don't care much. Right now, it's about my friend. She's home, and I want to make sure she's taken care of. That's all for now. And if that's all it ever is, I'll be happy."

She studies him again, and he keeps his eyes steady on her. He's telling her the truth, so she shouldn't find anything out of the ordinary in his expression. 

"And what if she leaves again?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know. If it happens, I'll find out."

*

As expected, the first few days are difficult. Clarke isn't naturally comfortable with children, and she's never had much reason to learn to become comfortable with them. Working as a nurse and attending to the poor in the city, she learned how to think of them as patients, but Reese is a girl who lives in her house, and Clarke is out of her depth with that.

"She's teaching me to bake," Reese says, when Bellamy asks how they're settling in. "Or trying to, I think."

"You're not even sure?" he asks, doing his best not to grin. Clarke is a notoriously bad baker and housekeeper. She might need a girl to help her out even more than she needed a boy, now that he thinks of it. Even if he's probably going to have to be the one to teach her the feminine arts. He's used to being the best housekeeper he knows.

"Mostly she just scowls at her recipes and tells me her father was the one who was good at these things." She worries her lip. "Is she always like this?"

"She is."

"Is this why she isn't married? Because she can't keep a house?"

"She's not married because she doesn't want to be married," he says. "It's not actually a requirement for women."

"Who doesn't want to be married?" Reese asks, sounding dubious.

Bellamy shrugs. "Plenty of people. Too many people get married just because that's what they're supposed to do, and they're miserable. It's better to not get married than to marry the wrong person."

"Did you marry the wrong person?"

"No," he says. "I loved my wife. We were happy. But it's been almost ten years since she died, and I hear all the time that I'm not too old to marry again, so I'm used to telling people I won't."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-eight."

"That is _very_ old," says Reese, somber.

"It is very old," he agrees.

"What happened to your parents?"

"I'll tell you while we work." He grabs Clarke's recipe box. "What's your favorite?"

"My favorite?"

"Thing to eat?"

"How should I know? I haven't eaten everything. I don't even know all her recipes."

"Well, look in there and see what you can find," he says. 

She rifles through the recipes while he checks Clarke's pantry. "Why do you know how to do this?" 

"Because I learned." He grabs the flour and sugar; they'll probably need those no matter what. "The man who adopted my sister and me, he brought us home to help his father. His father was old and didn't know how to do anything domestic, so my sister and I learned. I'm better at it than my sister."

"Why do you have a sister, if you're an orphan?"

"My mother didn't die until I was eight," he says. "So my sister had time to be born. What are we making?"

"Can we make a pie? I want to learn how to do the criss-cross pattern on the top."

"That's called a lattice. And yes, we can make a pie."

They get the ingredients gathered between the two of them, and he sets her working on the filling while he prepares the crust.

"My father died when I was a baby," he says. "He was a sailor, and his ship went down. I don't remember him at all. My mother remarried when I was four, and he hated me."

"Why?"

"My father was a foreigner, so I was a foreigner too, and he didn't like foreigners."

Reese perks up. "A foreigner? From where?"

"The Philippines." At her blank look, he smiles. "Clarke has an atlas, I'll show you where it is after we finish."

"Have you ever been there? Do you know your family?"

"No, just our family name, Blake. And I've never been able to afford to go. It's a long way away."

She nods. "I should like to go."

He has to smile. "It sounds like you want to go everywhere."

"Don't you?"

"I like it here," he says. "East, west, home's best."

"Maybe I'll think that if I ever have a home," she says, glum, and Bellamy winces. Clarke's still keeping her on a trial basis, and he understands why, and he's quite sure that she will keep the girl, but he also understands why it's not reassuring for Reese.

"So, my mother remarried," he says, and Reese rolls her eyes.

"Wow. I'm so impressed with how well you can change the subject."

"Sorry, I thought you wanted to hear this story."

"I do."

"I was five when my sister was born, and her father left not too long after that."

"Left?"

"He decided he didn't like being married. I told you, some people marry the wrong person just to be married. I know my mother did."

"What happened to him?"

"He died too," he says. "After my mother. She died when I was eight and my sister was three, and we went to live with a second cousin of hers, until she didn't want us anymore. It was a few years later when we found out about her father. I didn't even remember his name to tell them to look for him. He just made me call him Mr. Chase."

"What happened to your sister?"

"Nothing. Mr. Marcus Kane adopted us for his father, and when his father died, he didn't want the farm any more than he did when his father was alive, so he gave it to us. She and her husband live there and let me board with them as long as I help with the children."

"Children?"

She's trying to keep her voice casual, and she's doing well enough with it that he's not confident what emotion she's trying to hide.

"Her oldest, Leah, is just about your age. She's excited to meet you. She's the only girl too, and none of her friends live close enough for her to see her very often."

"She wants to be my friend?" Reese asks. 

"Why wouldn't she? Don't you want to be her friend?"

"I don't know her. What's she like?"

"She's my niece," he says, smiling. "Of course I think she's perfect."

Reese sighs. "You're right, I can't trust you. Clarke, what do you think?"

Bellamy startles, looks around and finds Clarke, leaning in the kitchen doorway, watching them with an unreadable look in her eyes. He hadn't heard her come in, hadn't realized they had any company at all. A quick mental review of the conversation assures him that he said nothing he wouldn't have said to her, nothing she didn't know, but he still doesn't like people listening to him when he doesn't know.

"Leah's a good girl," says Clarke. Now that he's aware of her, she crosses the room to join them at the table. "Very bright. And she comes to help with the farm sometimes."

"I think she wanted personality," Bellamy teases. 

"I said she was bright," Clarke says, glaring, and he has to grin.

"She likes being outdoors," he tells Reese. "She takes after her mother. Sometimes it feels like I'm looking at her again, when I see Leah."

"Am I supposed to have friends?" Reese asks Clarke. They remind Bellamy of cats, circling each other, trying to understand how to share space. It's a little funny.

"Do you want friends?" Clarke shoots back.

"If I'm here to _work_ ," she says, "I don't see why I'd need friends."

"Bellamy came to work and he still had friends." Clarke huffs. "I'm not planning to lock you up when you don't have chores to do. I'm just expecting you to do the chores you have on time. Those should be your first priority, not friends."

"And as soon as you start school, that should be your first priority," Bellamy adds.

Clarke flashes him a quick scowl. "Who's raising her, you or me?"

"Am I wrong?" 

For a second, it seems like she's going to say yes just to be contrary. But instead, she lets out a breath. "No, you're not wrong. If you stay with me, you'll work, and you'll be educated. You can have all the education you want, I'll make sure of that. And when you're done with your chores and your schoolwork, you can have as many friends as you want too."

"Could I be a nurse?" Reese asks, once she's thought it over. "Like you?"

She's concentrating on the pie filling, so she doesn't see Clarke's shock. It's probably the first time Reese has registered any interest in being like Clarke, and it probably hadn't occurred to Clarke that she might. Clarke went from being a golden child to a cautionary tale, because that's how it is, for an ambitious woman. Everyone was proud of her, until she went too far from what she was supposed to do, and there's a part of Bellamy that wishes she'd leave again, just so the town gossips wouldn't think she'd given up or failed in the city.

But it's not much of him. He's not so unselfish.

"If you'd like to be," Clarke says. She glances at Bellamy. "Do you think I could be the doctor?'

"What?"

"Dr. Wallace over in Mt. Weather is getting on in years. He'll be retiring soon, with no apprentice or obvious successor. We've never had a doctor just for Arcadia before, but--I could do it. For the usual things. Sick babies and broken arms."

Working with the church in the city, she gave Christian aide to the sick and poor, and her experience with that would certainly be enough to carry them through, as she said, all the usual things.

"You could," he agrees. "It's just a question of if anyone will come to you."

She flashes him a quick smile. "Oh, they'll come to me. The real question is if I can get paid for it."

"That too." He considers. "And if you want to be."

"I'd rather get paid than not."

"That's not what I meant." Reese isn't saying anything, all her focus on her work, but he can tell she's listening intently. He and Clarke aren't raising their voices, aren't upset, but it's probably a conversation that feels tense to her. "You could try to be ordinary again here, if you wanted," he says. "A woman keeping her farm. If you don't want rumors, you shouldn't try to get work as a doctor."

Clarke looks away. "I've started to think I'd rather not throw away my happiness worrying about my reputation."

He's glad no one is looking at him to see his grin. "Well, the next time I need a doctor, I know where I'll go."

"You're here most of the time anyway," Reese says, and he grins.

"Then I should be very healthy, shouldn't I?" he tells her. "Keep working. I'm looking forward this pie."

*

The conversation settles Clarke and Reese, at least a little. Clarke always does better with a plan, and having established the hierarchy of Reese's priorities--school, chores, friends--she feels more confident about what to do with her. And Reese, to Bellamy's not great surprise, prefers to have set tasks as well. Like most of the orphans he's known, she distrusts pure charity, and had trouble believing Clarke would keep her just to have her around just to have her. 

Bellamy seems to be the only one who believes Clarke will be happier like this, but as far as he's concerned, he believes it enough for everyone. He'll make sure she is. That they both are.

But a blowup was coming, and he's not surprised when it arrives. If anything, he's surprised that Clarke is as upset as she is about it.

What happens is that Reese meets Murphy. Murphy is one of those people who's only known by his last name, never _Mr. Murphy_ or _John_ , just Murphy, and he isn't exactly a friend, but he and Clarke have a sort of weird understanding. Which, as far as Bellamy's concerned, should have extended to Clarke never introducing Reese to Murphy and hoping they never interacted.

Instead, Bellamy's in the barn, attending to Clarke's horse, when both of them storm in together.

"I told you to go to your room," Clarke snaps.

"If I go to my room then Bellamy is going to be on your side!" says Reese. "He has to hear from both of us."

"That's not how this works," says Clarke. "This isn't a discussion. You were rude, and you're to go to your room until I've decided how to deal with it."

"You're going to decide _with Bellamy_ , so I should be able to tell Bellamy my side!"

"Clarke's right," he says, before the argument can continue. "That's not how it works. You have to go to your room when she tells you. But I promise I'll listen to your side of the story."

"That's not how this works either." Clarke is still glaring daggers at both of them. "She's my charge, not yours. Just because Bellamy is here doesn't mean he's involved. Just because I ask him for advice doesn't mean this is a group decision. I adopted you, not him, and I make the decisions. And right now, you have to go to your room until I've figured out your punishment."

"Bellamy--"

"This has nothing to do with me," he says. "Clarke's your guardian. I'm here when you need me, but I don't get a vote."

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. "Exactly. So, go to your room. I'll deal with you later."

Reese storms off, and Clarke rubs her forehead, slumping against the wall. "I suppose that's what I get for asking your advice so much."

"I suppose." He joins her, leaning back against the slats of the barn himself. "What happened?"

"She and Murphy got in a fight."

He gives her a minute, but she doesn't say anything else. "That's it?" he finally asks. "Everyone we know has gotten into a fight with Murphy."

"I know!" she says, sounding even more upset. "He was awful, and she snapped at him, and he deserved it. But--she's eleven years old. She can't snap at her elders like that."

"You would have. I would have too."

"And my mother would have sent me to my room and made me apologize. Just because I would have done something doesn't mean I should tell her she was right to do it."

"No. But Murphy was wrong, right?"

"Obviously."

"So whatever you say to her, you need to acknowledge that he was wrong too. Otherwise you're letting him get away with something she doesn't get away with. She reacted to a bad thing in the wrong way, but she's eleven. He's the one who should know better."

Her mouth tugs up. "This is why I didn't want her to talk to you."

"Hey, I raised my sister. You think I didn't have to explain to her a thousand times that just because someone else started it, she can't do and say whatever she wants? I understand what you're taking on here. I just think you should start with acknowledging that Murphy shouldn't have said what he said. Whatever it was."

"The usual. He didn't say anything that wasn't true, he just shouldn't have said it."

"So, she's a poor, scrawny orphan who's never going to amount to anything? I punched him in the jaw when he told me that."

"And Mr. Kane should have made you apologize."

"But he didn't, and I turned out all right."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," she teases, and the fact that she's smiling again is enough for him.

"I don't think I would have turned out better if I'd apologized to Murphy back then. But settling things with other children isn't the same as disrespecting an adult. Even if the adult is Murphy."

"No. And she's going to start school, and she has to be expecting to hear some bad things. She'll have to deal with them without losing her temper."

"Have you ever noticed it's a lot easier to be angry with someone for something you do yourself?" he asks. "It's not like you don't have a temper too. You just keep it inside for later. You can hold a grudge better than anyone I've ever met."

"And you still snap at people who say the wrong thing about your sister." She lets out a breath. "I want to raise her to be better than we are. I don't want anyone to be able to say I'm not doing right by her."

"People are always going to say that. But you are doing right, Clarke."

"And I should just listen to you?"

"I'm the leading authority on orphans in Arcadia. I keep telling you."

"But if I keep listening to you, she's always going to think--" she starts, and looks away. "I can't go running to you for advice every time I need it and still tell her you're not involved in her upbringing."

"I'm involved," he says. "But you're the final authority."

"I don't think she believes that."

"She thinks I'm on her side, so she wants to talk to me."

"You are on her side."

"So are you. We're both on her side. But I'm on yours too. And if I disagree with you, I'll still tell her it's your decision."

"So what are you going to tell her about this?" Clarke asks, giving him a shrewd look.

It's an awkward question. "That just because someone is rude to her, she's not allowed to be rude back. And that she has to do what you say."

Thankfully, Clarke laughs. "You're undermining my authority."

"I'm disagreeing with you. You knew that was going to happen."

"I did." She hesitates for a second, and then squeezes his wrist, quick and firm, completely unexpected. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says, and watches her go for a long time after she's already gone.

*

When Reese still hasn't apologized the next day, he goes and talks to her, and he's persuaded her in ten minutes. He'd like to say it makes him feel guilty, but mostly it makes him feel warm and bright and important. A part of the family.

It would probably be better if he did feel bad about it.

*

Reese and Leah become friends in the easy way children can, based entirely on proximity, but with the conviction that the feelings are deep and lasting. It's a strange thing for him to think about, because some days, it feels like Clarke is that friend for him, but most of the time he remembers that they didn't take to each other right away, and such a shallow connection couldn't have lasted through years and miles like it has.

And maybe Reese and Leah will have the same. Maybe some people are just lucky enough to find their kindred spirits living next door.

Regardless of the actual similarities, it's not a good state of mind for him to be in when Reese asks, "When are you going to marry Clarke?"

If anyone had asked him, he would have realized he assumed Leah thought his marriage to Clarke was inevitable. She is, after all, Octavia's daughter, and Octavia thinks he's going to marry Clarke. And while he's sure Leah has heard some rumors about Clarke in school, he doubts any of them have put together the whispers they've heard about how _peculiar_ she is into anything like what people are whispering she is. 

Parents don't want their children to know things like this. They're sure that if no one tells them they can have a different kind of life, they won't want one. Bellamy knows why they think it works; most of their children don't want that. But he knows Clarke, and he knows Nathan Miller, and he knows himself well enough to know he wouldn't mind either, if he found a man he liked, a man he wanted to be with. Some people are like that, and not telling them won't keep them from finding it out.

But he also wouldn't mind marrying Clarke, and of course his sister knows that, and her daughter knows it, and now Reese knows it.

"Leah," he says, warning, and Leah rolls her eyes, looking exactly like her mother.

"Everyone wants to know, Uncle Bell."

"You're not everyone, Lee."

"I want to know too," says Reese. "I didn't think you wanted to marry her. I thought you already would have. You've had long enough."

"I have had long enough," he agrees. "So maybe that's a good reason to think I don't want to."

It's the wrong tactic to take. Leah's used to him, to this kind of casual evasion, but it's not something he's tried with Reese, and her temper flares bright and sudden. "Why not?" she demands. "What's wrong with marrying Clarke? Just because she can't cook doesn't mean she'd be a bad wife. _You_ can cook, you don't need a wife to do it for you. And no one else is going to marry you while you're helping us out."

"I didn't mean it like that," he says, a little taken aback. He runs his hand through his hair, trying to come up with an answer that's both true and will keep them from ever asking the question again. "You shouldn't marry someone just because you don't have a reason not to. Neither of us needs to get married, so we're not going to unless we want to. If we ever want to, I assume we will."

"Mama says you would have married her before she left," says Leah.

"Your mama thinks I want to marry every woman I've ever smiled at, and I only married one of them, so I don't think we should take her as an authority." They don't look persuaded, and he sighs. "You two must have better things to do than think about if Clarke and I are ever going to marry," he says, without any conviction that it's true. Of course they'd love thinking about that. "But even if you don't, you should stop. You never know who's going to get married until they're at the altar, trust me. If I were a gambling man, I would have lost money on plenty of sure things that never happened."

"But you _know_ ," says Reese. "You get to decide."

"I get to decide," he agrees. "That doesn't mean I know."

The girls are satisfied, and he knows it's because he hasn't said he won't marry Clarke. Which means, unfortunately, that it's not over or settled.

Which also means he has to tell Clarke. Not that he wouldn't have anyway; it's not just that she deserves a warning, but it's something to figure out how to navigate. They should have figured it out sooner, but he was putting it off, hoping it somehow wouldn't come up. That Reese would just assume there was a good reason he and Clarke hadn't married.

If she's going to ask for one, they need to come up with something.

"My niece told Reese that we're getting married," he tells her, without preamble. Reese is at school, and he's helping Clarke with the milking. It does feel like the kind of thing he maybe shouldn't be doing, but he wants to do it so much it's hard to talk himself out of it.

"Who's getting married?" Clarke asks.

"Me and you."

"That was my first guess. But Reese worships you, so--"

He chokes. "No. Definitely not. I'm not marrying Reese."

"Just me."

"I assume she's going to ask you about it too, so you might want to come up with a good answer. I wasn't ready for it."

"No?" She sounds delighted. "What did you say?"

"Nothing good," he admits. "I said if we ever wanted to get married, we would."

She hums, and he doesn't know what that means.

"How are the rumors doing?" he asks, when she doesn't say anything more. "Do you know what they're saying about you?"

"Nothing unsurprising. You are starting to feature more prominently, like you thought."

"I don't see how you're better at gossip than I am," he grumbles.

"Murphy knows everything. And he'll actually say it outright, instead of tiptoeing around the point."

"So what does he say?"

"They think that you're lovelorn and I'll settle for you to seem normal."

"That's one option." He exhales. "You can tell Reese whatever you want. I won't be offended."

"I've been wondering when I should tell her about myself. About--I did love a woman. I would have married her if I could have."

"You would?"

"Yes. But I'm glad I didn't, now. If I had married her, I couldn't have just left so easily when it went wrong."

"Your mother left your father."

"Not because she didn't love him. They didn't quarrel. But they didn't need to live together."

"He was dying, and she didn't come back."

"No, she didn't." She finishes with the cow and wipes her hands on her apron. "Reese is going to be at school a while longer. I have some currant wine. I won't tell anyone we're drinking in the middle of the day if you don't."

He smiles. "I won't."

As a child, Bellamy said he would never touch spirits, having met too many drunks, but he's found that moderation is the key, as in most things. Gossip is relentless, so he keeps quiet about it, but he never worries about Clarke knowing anything about him. That's not how they are.

So when she pours him a glass of wine, he takes it, and when she sits, he sits with her.

"What do you want to tell her?"

"I want to tell her that I loved someone, and we couldn't make it work. I don't want--I hated that no one told me these things. If I'm not honest with her, I'm not better than my parents were."

"What did your mother think? About your--it was Lexa, right?"

"I never could tell if you knew."

"I'm not stupid, Clarke. It wasn't hard to read between the lines."

"And Nathan Miller is your best friend," she says. "But I couldn't just ask."

"You're avoiding the question," he says.

She takes a sip of her wine, smiles. "I think my mother would have been happier if I'd just told her I only liked women. Then it would have been--an unfortunate defect. But since I liked both, she had trouble accepting that I'd chosen to be with a woman. Just like she has trouble accepting that I decided to come back here."

"I have trouble with that too."

"I'm happier here," she says. "I wasn't expecting it, but--I didn't make friends in the city. I had Lexa, but it was just her. I'd been thinking of leaving, but I didn't know where to go."

"So here you are," he says. 

"Here I am."

"I'm glad." He wets his lips. "I don't think I said that. I missed you. I'm glad you're staying here."

"I missed you too."

He takes another sip of the wine. "I think you can be honest with her. Orphans know how to keep our mouths shut. Even if it doesn't seem like she can."

"Do you think you'll ever stop?" she asks. "Feeling like the first thing you are is an orphan."

"It's not the first thing I am. I'm a brother, before I'm anything. And an uncle. But that's not relevant to these conversations as often as being an orphan is."

"But you know what I mean."

"It's hard to hear something defines you for so long and not believe it matters."

"I don't want it to be like that for Reese," Clarke admits. "But I don't understand. I know that. Even if her life is good now, she's always going to wonder, how it would be if it was just--good from the start."

He pauses for a second, but this is Clarke, and they've moved a long way past propriety. He puts his arm around her shoulders, and she leans into the embrace. "I'll always wonder, yes," he says. "But I wouldn't change my life for the chance it would have been better. I don't think it would have been."

"It feels easier for you," she says. "She lost her parents before she ever knew them. You know--"

"My mother wasn't great. My life wasn't great. But hers never has been either. It's easier to think it could have been, I guess, but the two of us had about the same amount of good life, Clarke." He wets his lips. "You're doing a good job. I said you would be good at this, and you are."

Her breath shakes as she exhales. "This really wasn't what I wanted to talk about."

"What did you want to talk about?"

For a few moments, she considers, and then she laughs. "No, you're right. I did want to talk about this."

He smiles. "I thought so."

"When I imagined it, we were talking more about Reese."

"If I thought you were doing wrong by her I'd tell you. Just be honest with her. You can be."

"I can." She pauses, deliberate. "She's still going to wonder when we'll get married."

"We can't stop anyone wondering about that. Trust me, if I could, my sister would say a lot less about my romantic life."

"It's your own fault for being such an eligible bachelor," she teases, and he groans.

"Getting married was supposed to end that."

"What was she like?" Clarke asks. "Your wife."

Gina was in his letters, but he's not surprised Clarke doesn't feel as if she knows much about her. He doesn't have much of an idea of what Lexa was like, himself.

"Sharp. Kind. Funny. Warm." He wets his lips. "I never felt like a very good husband to her. I probably should have waited longer to marry. But--she seemed happy. So I didn't do too badly."

"I'm sure you were a good husband."

"I hope so." He smiles. "You would have liked her."

Clarke is quiet again. "I hope so," she finally says, and drains her wine.

*

Bellamy doesn't know much about Clarke's communications with her mother, but he is genuinely surprised it takes as long as it does for her to arrive back in Arcadia. It's been almost six months since Jake Griffin died, and five months since Clarke adopted Reese. He'd expected her to arrive to demand her daughter explain herself long before this.

Not that, as far as Bellamy's concerned, Clarke needs to explain herself. She moved home to care for her father, and now she's settled in. She's come to be respected as the medical authority she is, thanks in part to Reese's surprising skill as an assistant. She's caring for the farm and involved in town life as much as she wants to be, which isn't much. He thinks she'll always be a slightly odd woman who keeps to herself, but most of his favorite people are slightly odd. She socializes with him and Octavia, Miller and Monty, and a new blacksmith, Raven, who's struggling with being taken seriously as a woman in a man's trade, as Clarke has.

(He'd been a little worried about Raven, truth be told, but her husband showed up only a week after she did, and the worry evaporated.)

The important thing is that Clarke is happy and well-respected and belongs here, and as far as Bellamy is concerned, any mother should be pleased and leave it at that.

But when Clarke says her mother is coming, his first reaction is to wince.

"And she's bringing Marcus Kane," she adds, as if Bellamy wasn't nervous enough already.

"Who's Marcus Kane?" asks Reese.

"The man who adopted me. He went off to become a lawyer on the mainland, so his father needed some help when he got older. He went looking and found me."

"I forgot that was Marcus," says Clarke, thoughtful. "I think he wants to marry my mother."

"Good for him. As long as he doesn't try to take the farm back, I don't care what he does."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "He doesn't want your farm, Bellamy."

"No, I don't see why he would."

"Don't you think it's _romantic_?" Reese bursts out.

"Which part?" Bellamy asks.

"Clarke's mother marrying your--guardian?"

"He wasn't ever our guardian," Bellamy says, but it comes out harsh, and he immediately regrets it. Marcus Kane was the one who gave him a chance. He remembers it so clearly, when the man came in, asked about Bellamy when the matron didn't introduce him with the other boys. He was a problem, the matron said, this one. He always ran away to find his sister. 

And then Marcus Kane asked if his sister was here, and when the matron said yes, it struck him as an easy solution. Here was this strong, capable boy, one who could do the work that was needed, and all he had to do to keep him was take his sister on as well.

Marcus has never been a close part of the family, but he's always been an important one. Bellamy owes him a debt, one that can't ever be repaid in any true sense. He did the best he could for Marcus's father, for the family, but--no one had ever taken on his sister before. Marcus Kane took both of them, and Bellamy will always be grateful.

"He's a good man," he adds, to Reese. "But his father was always in charge of Octavia and me. The last time I saw him was when his father died, and he gave me the deed to the farm. I'm always worried he'll regret that."

"Which he won't," says Clarke.

"He certainly doesn't want it."

"Did he ever marry anyone?" Reese asks Clarke. "Or has he always been in love with your mother, and they couldn't be together?"

"I don't think those are the only options," Clarke says. "And I don't know why you think I'd know. I hope he hasn't been in love with her all this time."

"Why?"

"Because she's been married to my father for as long as he's known her. I know pining away with doomed love sounds romantic in books, but it must be miserable in real life. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"I suppose not," she says, with a sigh. "But it _is_ romantic."

"Everything you think is romantic sounds awful to me," Clarke teases. "I don't want someone to go off and fight a war in my name. They'd probably die. I'd much rather have someone to help me bale the hay."

"You have Bellamy for that," says Reese, innocent, and Bellamy appreciates it, because he was thinking the same thing.

"And if he ever says he wants to go fight a war in my name, I'll tell him not to bother," she says. "Go wash up for dinner."

Once she's gone, Bellamy leans across the table to look at Clarke. "What do you want me to do while your mother is here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean if I'm in your barn baling your hay and taking all my meals with you, she's going to have some questions. I won't mind if you don't want to deal with that."

"I don't think I can avoid it." It's not particularly comforting, but she adds, "She knows you're my best friend, Bellamy. It's not as if I haven't mentioned all you're doing for me."

Which isn't exactly _comforting_ , but does make him feel better.

"Is she upset? That you're staying."

She sighs. "I don't know. It's hard to tell. It's not as if--I assume she misses me. But she knew I wasn't happy, and I think she understands I'm happier here."

"But you're still nervous."

"I'm still nervous. I'm not sure. But--it doesn't matter, and that's making it worse."

"You lost me there."

"I've never not cared what my mother thinks before. Even when she didn't approve, I cared. But now--this is what I want. Her opinion doesn't matter to me at all."

"Good. It shouldn't."

"So you should keep coming around," she says, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. "I'd miss you, if you stopped."

"I would too," says Reese, and he and Clarke both startle. "Even if the two of you _clearly_ don't notice when _I'm_ not around."

"Of course we do," says Clarke, easy. "It's so much quieter without you."

But she gives him a smile, soft and private, and his heart stutters with a sudden, unfamiliar feeling of _hope_.

It may be that all he has to do is ask.

*

"The place looks good."

Bellamy starts, guilty, from where he's reading in the loft of Clarke's barn. It wouldn't be so bad, honestly, except that he has no real reason to be here, and Marcus Kane has every right to think that Bellamy should be on his family farm, helping out there, instead of stealing one of Clarke's books to read.

Honestly, almost all he does at the old Kane farm now is sleep and have breakfast. The children are old enough to help Lincoln on the farm, and while Bellamy _does_ love spoiling his baby niece, he's got Reese to spoil too.

Octavia just tells him she understands, and she always knew he'd get a family of his own one day.

It's harder and harder to deny that that's what's happening, he has to admit.

"Mr. Kane!" he says, scrambling to his feet. "I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow."

"So did we," he says, offering his hand. Bellamy shakes it. "But we made it in time for today's train. It's good to see you again."

"I'll be, uh--" He rubs the back of his neck. "I'll be heading back to the Kane farm soon, I was just going to have tea here first."

His smile is broad. "This isn't a trick, Bellamy. The farm looks good. I'm glad to see you're helping out. I know your sister and her husband have their farm well in hand. And it is their farm," he adds, a gentle remonstration. "It's not mine anymore. And not yours either, from what I've heard."

"O's the one who needed a big house," he says, still feeling awkward. "But I'd never neglect--"

"Bellamy. My father's been dead for fifteen years. It's not the Kane farm anymore. It's the Birch farm, and I couldn't be more pleased with how well it's doing. And I'm just as pleased that the Griffin farm is in such good shape. I understand that's in large part your doing."

"Someone's got to make sure the cows are milked while Clarke's off nursing," he says.

"I heard something about that too. It's quite an arrangement the two of you have here. The nurse, her best friend, and their orphan."

Bellamy wets his lips, not sure what to say. "Her orphan."

"If you'd like."

"Where's Mrs. Griffin?" he asks.

"She and Clarke went to check on Mrs. McIntire. Apparently her hip is troubling her again. I said I'd stay here and see if you and--it's Reese, isn't it? The girl."

"Yes."

"I said I'd see if you needed help. She said she had the tea well in hand. Apparently she does better with it when Clarke isn't around to bother her."

Bellamy has to smile. "Clarke's not much of a help in the kitchen."

"She does take after her mother," he says, smiling too, and Bellamy's heart lurches with the realization that they're two men discussing the women they love.

It's not a new realization, at this point. His feelings for Clarke have been present for his whole life in Arcadia, but never at the forefront of his mind. When she left, he told himself that if she hadn't, he would have said something, and he probably would have. When she told him about Lexa, in her roundabout way, he thought it was good he hadn't mentioned it, since it would have only made things awkward.

Now, the only reason he has to keep his mouth shut is that he doesn't want to make things uncomfortable between them, worries about the seismic shift he might cause by telling her how he feels, if she doesn't feel the same.

But she might. And if she does, he'd like to know about it.

"So, tell me all the news," says Kane, bright. "I don't keep up very well with Arcadia."

"There's not much to keep up with," he says. "There's a new teacher coming to the school in the fall. Reese is nervous; she didn't get along very well with the last one, so she wants the new one to be better. Did you get to meet the new baby at the farm?"

Kane says he has, and they chat about her for a while, but Bellamy can't help bringing his stories back to Clarke and Reese, and inescapable magnetic pull. It was never difficult before, to talk about his sister's family as his own, to share her news and gossip as his.

He didn't have any other family to talk about; of course it wasn't difficult.

"Will you come help with tea, or would you like to see more of the farm?" he asks, a little awkward, when he realizes he's been bragging about the story Reese wrote the previous week.

"Yes, I'll join you. Clarke thought she and Abby should be home too." He pauses and claps Bellamy on the shoulder. "I'm glad you're doing well. I feel as if I don't say it enough."

"Why would you need to say it?" he asks, confused.

"Because you thought I'd be upset that you were here instead of with your sister. Frankly, I'm thrilled."

He doesn't have a good response to that either, can't quite figure out how to take it.

"I am too," he finally says. "I'll show you in."

Clarke and her mother are already there, and Reese is chatting up a storm. When Kane sees her, he leans in to press a kiss to Mrs. Griffin's cheek, and Bellamy's eye immediately finds the engagement ring on her finger. She must have been coming to tell Clarke in person.

His eyes flick to Clarke's and she smiles, no sign of tension in her eyes.

He still wishes he could press in close to her too, give her the comfort and reassurance he worries she needs. He wants so much he can practically taste it.

"Bellamy," says Mrs. Griffin. Soon to be Mrs. Kane, apparently. "It's good to see you again. I can't thank you enough for all you're doing for Clarke."

"It's so much better than fighting a war for her, isn't it?" says Reese, and Bellamy can't help a snort of laughter at Mrs. Griffin's confused expression, for all it feels like a tactical error to encourage the girl.

"I didn't know there were any wars that demanded Bellamy's attention," she says, delicate. 

"It's a long story," Clarke says, her smile so fond Bellamy can't look away. "Stop being silly and set the table, Reese."

*

Mr. Kane and Mrs. Griffin stay for a week, and Bellamy never stops feeling itchy about it. No one acts as if it's odd, that he's there. No one suggests he should be marrying her, or that she should be leaving if he isn't marrying her. No one seems to think their life here is anything but good. And it's not as if his life here _isn't_ good. He doesn't disagree.

But he's never had anything like parental approval before. Marcus Kane's father had never felt like a parent to him. He'd been an employer Bellamy lived with. A good one, to be sure, one who made sure Bellamy was well fed and well clothed, who prioritized his education over his work. But he wasn't like Clarke is with Reese. He never seemed to take pride in Bellamy, or care what Bellamy did, so long as he did what he was told. 

If anyone had asked, he would have said it didn't bother him. That he didn't even notice. But he would have thought about the question, and he might have realized that he didn't think anyone ever had approved of him. Gina's parents liked him, but he knows he was a disappointment to them as well. For all they didn't hate him, they never would have chosen him for their daughter. Parents don't hope for their children to marry orphaned farmers with dark skin, and they'd been even less pleased a few years later, when he allowed his own sister to marry Lincoln and brought him into the family.

Abigail Griffin seems to like him. She seems to take him, and by extension his sister, her husband, and their children, as a part of her family without question, without reservation. With nothing but happiness.

He doesn't take them to the train with Clarke, but her mother embraces him before she goes, and tells him, "I'm so glad she has you. I was worried about her, back here alone."

He blinks at her, as if he's coming out of darkness and trying to adjust to the light. "She's not alone," he finally says, and Mrs. Griffin smiles at him.

"No, she's not. If you need anything, you can write to me," she adds, and then she's going to say goodbye to Reese. Bellamy can vaguely hear her saying Reese can call her _grandmother_ , if she'd like.

Kane offers his hand again. "I'm glad you're doing well. If the three of you ever want to come visit us, you're welcome. And of course you'll be invited to the wedding."

It's been like that the whole week: the three of them, a unit. A family.

"Thank you, sir," he says. "Have a safe trip."

Reese settles her small body against his side once she's freed from social obligations, snuggling against him as they watch Clarke take them off in the buggy.

"You've got a grandmother, huh?" he asks.

She makes a face, and he has to smile. "Can I have a grandmother if I don't want a mother?"

"I think so," he says. 

"Clarke won't be upset? That I can't--"

"No."

Her look is deeply unimpressed. "How do you know?"

"She'll understand. And if she doesn't, I'll talk to her." 

"And you don't mind? That I won't call you _father_."

"I'm not your father," he says, past the lump in his throat. He had a father, and he had a mother. He never knew his father, but he still feels the lack of him, the knowledge of an absence. He doesn't feel it about grandparents, about the other siblings he could have had. He doesn't even feel it about Gina; he had a wife, and he lost her, but a wife doesn't feel irreplaceable. A parent does, and if Reese feels the same way, he understands that. "I don't mind."

"But you would be," she says. "If I were going to call anyone that."

"Oh good. I had a lot of competition."

She takes his teasing with a smile, and he does love her, fiercely and unreservedly, like his own daughter. Just like his own daughter. "I like your friend Mr. Miller," she tells him. "He could be my father."

"You say that, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't be caught dead with a daughter."

"That's why I'm taking you," she says, and he gives her a final squeeze around the shoulders and then lets her go.

"That's why," he agrees. "Come on, we've got chores to do."

*

He doesn't plan to tell Clarke how he feels, in the most literal sense. Telling her is a nebulous thing, something he'll do, at some point, but he has no _plan_ for it. It's urgent only in as much as he wants her, in as much as it's hard for him to see her every day and not be able to touch her, to kiss her, to stay with her. Her house is his home, and he wants to treat it as such.

But he hasn't figured out what to say to her yet. He doesn't have any idea what to say. But he assumes he'll find one.

It's fall, the first week of school. When he thinks about it, he thinks he'd like to tell her before winter, to save himself the trip from Octavia's house to Clarke's in the cold. 

But it's a vague want, undefined and distant. 

So, no. He doesn't have a plan for how to tell her at all. It just happens.

Reese is at a picnic at a classmates' and she's been able to talk about nothing else for days. It's not her first such event, but it's the first time she's gone to one alone, without Clarke or Bellamy accompanying her, and he's looking forward to hearing her full account.

The sight of Lincoln's buggy speeding up the drive is alarming and unexpected, but he doesn't think of Reese. He assumes it's a problem with the baby, or one of the other children, that Lincoln is coming for Clarke. It worries him a little, because she's at the Jordan farm presently. Jasper's oldest is recovering from a fever, and Clarke isn't worried, but the boy's parents are, of course, so she's there to reassure them.

He's all ready to tell Lincoln that, to offer to go and fetch her while Lincoln waits, to apologize for the delay, but the words die on his lips when Lincoln lifts Reese out of the buggy. His mind goes blank, and he's dropping his shovel, rushing forward to take her before he has any idea what's going on.

"She had a fall," Lincoln says, his voice even, pitched for reassurance. "She's dazed, but I don't think anything is broken. Is Clarke here?"

"At the Jordan's," he says. "She was checking on Alan, I--"

"I'll get her," says Lincoln. "Do you need help taking her in?"

"No. I've--get Clarke. Please," he thinks to add, and Lincoln gives his shoulder one firm squeeze.

"It was a bad fall but she's mostly awake," he says. "Don't worry. She's going to be fine."

She is already stirring in his arms, but he won't be calm until Clarke can look at her.

"I know," he tells Lincoln anyway. "But--hurry."

Bellamy gets her settled in bed with a cool cloth on her forehead, and it's only then that she says, "I'm _fine_."

"Sure you are," he says, unable to keep the tightness out of his voice. "What happened?"

"Nothing _bad_ ," she says, and Bellamy strokes the hair back off her forehead. 

"If it wasn't bad, you wouldn't be hurt."

"Alice Winters dared me to walk the ridge of the barn."

"Jesus," he says, and she giggles.

"You aren't supposed to take the lord's name in vain, Bellamy."

"You aren't supposed to risk your life on a dare. You're lucky the fall wasn't worse. Do you have any idea how scared I was? How scared Clarke will be?"

"Clarke won't be scared," she scoffs. "She's a nurse, she doesn't get scared."

Bellamy's sure she believes it, but when Clarke arrives she's frantic, hands skating over Reese's head with no rhyme or reason, and Bellamy has to reach out and take her arm to center her.

"Clarke," he says, gentle. "She hit her head. You need to examine her."

"Right," says Clarke, shaking herself. "How?"

Reese is more alert now, her eyes more focused, and she tells the story with a greater dramatic flare while Clarke looks her over. Bellamy can't stop watching either, eyes roving for any sign of real injury, but Clarke slumps back with a relieved huff at last.

"You're lucky you didn't break anything. I can't believe you were so--" Words fail Clarke, and she just glares. "If anyone ever dares you to do something like that again, you _cannot do it_."

"You can't scare us like that again," Bellamy supplies. Just in case Reese missed her terror.

"No," Clarke agrees. "You can't." Her eyes flick to him. "Can you get her something to eat?"

"Of course. Are you eating up here too?"

Her smile is weary. "We might as well all eat up here."

"We might as well. I'll bring a book too."

There's some ham left over from last night, and bread from that morning, and he cobbles together the rest of a meal without having to spend time cooking. They eat from a tray with Reese in bed, and Bellamy reads aloud until she nods off. It's his first time staying late enough to tuck her into bed, and he leans over to press his lips against her forehead before he leaves, heart so full of love he aches with it.

And then he's alone with Clarke in the living room, still feeling like he might burst, and when she smiles at him, weary and relieved, all he can do is lean down and press his mouth against hers.

He doesn't have time to be nervous, not before he feels her smile, and her hand comes up to tangle in his hair, and then he's kissing her, really kissing her, remembering how to do it slowly. His hands find her hips, holding her close, and she's pressing into him, so warm and eager it's impossible to doubt himself.

"Should I have proposed first?" he murmurs against her mouth.

"No, you shouldn't have. Not unless you did it twenty years ago."

He does pull that at back, sees a flush rise on her cheeks. She's not looking at him. "Would you have said yes if I did?"

"Yes. But I still would have gone, too, so--" She leans against his chest, and he wraps her up in his arms, reveling in his ability to hold her. They're really going to have to get married very soon. He's waited long enough. "You should definitely kiss me _now_ ," she settles on. "You have an excuse to spend the night, since Reese was hurt."

"Are you using her injury to sneak me into your bed?" he teases.

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She'd probably be proud of herself for helping." He's disappointed when she pulls out of his embrace, but she takes his hand and tugs gently. "I do want you in my bed, though," she adds, and his disappointment evaporates at once. 

"It is awfully late for me to go home," he says, and lets her pull him upstairs.

*

"Are you going to have a baby?" Reese asks.

The question pulls Bellamy up short, although it shouldn't. It's not unthinkable; she's old for a first child, but she probably could still have one.

"I don't know," he says, honestly. "Why, do you want us to?"

She seems to really be thinking it over. She was as unreservedly delighted about the engagement as he thought she would be, and even more thrilled to discover that her role as flower girl in their wedding would necessitate a new dress. 

But now she says, "I don't know," slow, like she's afraid of the words.

"Well, neither do I. Why don't you talk me through it?"

"I like babies," she says. "And I think I'd like--I'd make a very good sister."

"You would."

"But I wouldn't be the baby's sister," she says, soft. "I'd be--"

"You would," he says. "You'd be her sister. I'm not sure Clarke and I will have any children of our own, but if we did, you'd still be our oldest daughter. Nothing changes that."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"What if--"

"I don't know why you want to come up with reasons we might stop loving you," he says. "We're not going to. I don't want to know what kind of terrible things you can imagine."

She grins. "But they're so _interesting_."

"I'm sure they are. But I'm sure you have something better you could be doing than telling me stories. Chores or schoolwork or _anything_."

"Clarke said I could help her when she goes to check on Mr. Jackson," she says. "But I don't have anything I want to do until then except for talk to you."

He ducks his head, feeling a ridiculous smile. His life isn't really _so_ different, being engaged to Clarke. The biggest change will come after they're married, and he can actually start living here. If they hadn't announced the engagement, he might have been able to stay more, but now everyone is watching them closely, convinced that they've been carrying on in an inappropriate manner.

Which they have, but not _often_. And they will be married next week.

Aside from knowing Clarke loves him, the biggest change has been in Reese. He'd known she wanted them to marry, but he took it for a child's romanticism. Which it certainly was, but it's clear from how she's settled that it wasn't just that. Before, he suspects, she felt torn between loyalties. She had two parents who weren't really _parents_. 

Now, she'll have a family.

"Fine, tell me a story," he says. "But you have to help me weed the garden."

She joins him without protest, and that's how Clarke finds them soon after.

"Time to go to Mr. Jackson's?" Reese asks, sounding disappointed. "I was almost done."

Clarke settles in next to Bellamy, and he presses his lips against her hair, quick. "We don't have to leave quite yet," she says. "You can finish your story. I want to hear it."

She frowns. "But you missed the beginning."

Clarke rests her head against his shoulder, looking perfectly content. "Don't worry. I'll catch up."

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe that if I'd waited a week to write this Clarke would have canonically adopted an orphan I could have used for the fic.


End file.
